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Black Chalk Page 6
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‘No,’ said Jolyon, ‘a real breakfast.’
Chad was doubtful. ‘Sure then,’ he said, ‘go for it.’
Jolyon grinned and turned on the kettle. He went to his desk, opened a drawer and removed two eggs and a tablecloth. Chad watched in silence as Jolyon smoothed the tablecloth over the coffee table. Round and white, made of delicate lace.
‘How do you take your tea?’ said Jolyon.
‘How do I what?’ said Chad. ‘Take? In a cup? What does that mean?’
‘Milk? Sugar? Please don’t say lemon.’
‘I’ve never had tea in my life,’ said Chad.
‘Good,’ said Jolyon. ‘Then you take it the same way as me. Strong, no sugar, just a thimbleful of milk. Excellent.’
When the kettle boiled, Jolyon poured two-thirds of its water into a glazed brown teapot that he took from beneath the coffee table. He then removed the lid of the kettle and lowered the eggs inside with a soup ladle. Returning the lid to the kettle, he looked at his watch. Then Jolyon went back to his desk and from the same drawer as the eggs, found two thick slices of white bread and lowered them into the toaster.
He started to describe something he had recently finished reading. Jolyon made everything that interested him sound so wonderful. Chad said he’d love to read the book as well, so Jolyon went to his shelves, took out the book and handed it to Chad. And then he said, ‘Please keep it if you like it.’ Jolyon looked at his watch. ‘Five minutes exactly,’ he said. With a pair of tongs he fished two tea bags from the pot then covered it with a padded tea cosy embroidered with bright bluebells and leaves. Then he started the toast. ‘He was an alcoholic,’ said Jolyon. ‘All of the best American writers were.’
Chad looked at the book and felt ashamed that he had not heard of Raymond Carver. He read the back cover. It described Carver as one of the greats of American literature and here was an Englishman lending the book to him. Chad flicked through the pages, reading the names of the stories at the top of the pages, titles that were simple yet rich.
Jolyon was sitting by the kettle, staring at his watch. ‘Nine minutes and twenty-seven seconds,’ he announced, and then working fast he removed the eggs from the kettle with the soup ladle. He put the eggs in a cereal bowl and took them over to a cupboard door while he started to call out names. ‘Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck.’ He opened the door, behind it was a mirror over a small washbowl. ‘Hemingway, obviously. Hemingway was king of the writer drunks.’ He put the eggs beneath the cold faucet and let the water run over them. ‘Cheever and Carver. Truman Capote.’
Jolyon lifted the eggs from the water. He rolled them in the washbowl to loosen the shells and peeled each one quickly and skilfully, first removing a strip of shell from the middle of each egg as if whipping a belt from a pair of pants, then easing off their fragile hemispheres of shell. ‘You go back a bit further and you’ve got Poe and Melville.’
As Jolyon finished the peeling, the toaster went chunk. He took two small plates from beside the washbowl. The plates were old and the glaze was cracked in places, he held them up for Chad to see as if displaying a brace of pheasants. ‘From my grandmother’s tea set,’ he said. ‘She died just a year ago. I called her Grandma Fred until the day she died because that was the name of her dog when I was younger.’ The plates were patterned with autumn leaves. Jolyon placed one slice of toast on each then crowned the toast with the eggs.
‘You know the best thing about eggs?’ said Jolyon. ‘And it’s not the fertility thing,’ he added. ‘An eggshell is like a chrysalis. But what’s inside could be anything when it comes out, there’s so much potential.’ He held one of the plates at the level of his nose and stared lovingly. ‘Think of everything an egg can do,’ he said, ‘the countless possibilities.’ He turned the plate around and around on his fingertips.
‘And you forgot to mention, they taste good,’ said Chad, but Jolyon seemed not to hear and Chad felt embarrassed.
Also beneath the coffee table were stored a number of teacups and saucers. Jolyon took two of each and placed them on the lace-draped table. The cups had pink rims, the saucers pink borders, and both were patterned with roses and cornflowers. The cups rattled faintly on their saucers as Jolyon lowered them slowly to the table.
‘OK, so perhaps with eggs it’s the fertility thing just a little as well,’ said Jolyon. ‘You know, I always want to eat eggs the morning after sex. I really crave them. Do you think there’s something deeply disturbing about that?’
‘You mean Freudian disturbing?’ said Chad.
‘Maybe,’ said Jolyon.
‘Probably,’ said Chad. They both laughed the same laugh, a small puff of air from the nose.
Jolyon climbed onto his bed to reach his window. On the ledge outside was a jug that matched the teacups. He brought the jug to the coffee table, removed a piece of foil from the top and poured milk into the teacups. Then he poured tea. The spout of the pot extended from a hole in the tea cosy.
‘If I were a condemned man,’ said Jolyon, ‘I’d definitely choose eggs for my last supper.’
Jolyon put the breakfast in front of Chad. The egg was white and pure on the perfect golden toast. He handed Chad a fork and put a small wooden dish of pyramid-shaped salt crystals on the coffee table between them. Then Jolyon went at his own egg with a fork, mashing it and spreading it over the slice of toast. The yolk was a bright orange, halfway between liquid and set. ‘Now this is important,’ said Jolyon. ‘And I’m never going to tell this to anyone but you.’ Jolyon gave Chad his conspiratorial look. And then he said, ‘It’s the twenty-seven seconds that’s the secret.’ He finished by crumbling salt across the smeared egg and raised the prize up. ‘English bruschetta,’ he announced, and took a large bite.
Chad copied the procedure. He had no idea what bruschetta was. But the whole thing was delicious, it was perfect, and for a moment he chose to believe that twenty-seven seconds really was the secret. He could tell that Jolyon had meant it very much in earnest.
XV(i) A sudden thought. The spring air feels so fresh I should enjoy my breakfast on the fire escape outside my window. I hope you can excuse the insertion of an aide-memoire at this point in the tale. I prefer physical mnemonics but if I do not somehow mark things the moment they occur to me, they tend to slip away through the cracks.
Note to self: Must remember to place some trinket on the breakfast plate to remind me to breakfast al fresco.
Yes, a very good idea.
XV(ii) My intercom buzzes. Delivery.
I let him into the building but open my front door suspiciously and only a crack – I don’t remember ordering anything. I sign his piece of paper and ask him to leave the box where it is in the corridor. When I am sure he is gone, I open the door wider and heave the large box into my kitchen.
A dozen bottles of whisky. I pull them out and line them up on my kitchen counter beneath the three bottles of whisky that stand on my shelf. Why did I order more whisky before I got down to my last bottle? And why so many?
I go to my computer to check. And there it is, my order confirmation from yesterday. Yes, I did indeed order twelve bottles of whisky.
I go back to the kitchen and shrug as I line up my bounty on the shelf. This is not exactly an unusual occurrence. I ordered more whisky than was strictly necessary – so what? Or perhaps some part of me yesterday was thinking more clearly than today. And when I think it through again the ordering of so much whisky makes more and more sense. Yes, there is much work to do writing my story. And then there is my recovery, my training. Long days of hard graft lie in front of me.
Twelve green bottles. Work work reward. A squirrel hoarding nuts for the pitiless winter ahead.
XVI(i) It was the usual night-time scene, young bodies strewn around Jolyon’s room, it was only ever the numbers that varied.
It was midnight and the bar had been closed for an hour. Jolyon, Jack and Chad, the three of them waiting, cherishing for now the secret of Game Soc. Emilia, Mark and Toby, sippi
ng Tom Collinses as they chattered. The music from Jolyon’s radio cassette blew over them all. The Stone Roses, ‘I Wanna Be Adored’. An ascension of guitars and then breathy vocals like the cigarette smoke in the room, curling, climbing.
Toby reached for the ceiling and yawned. ‘Well, I think that just about does it for me. Thanks for the cocktails, Jolyon.’ But Jolyon seemed not to hear him, was scribbling something on a scrap of paper resting on his thigh. Toby shook his head briskly. ‘Tutorial at two tomorrow and I have only half an essay. Love to stay longer otherwise.’ He stood up and found his jacket. ‘See you later.’
They all replied except Jolyon, who continued to scribble.
Emilia waited until Toby could not possibly remain within earshot but she spoke in a half-whisper anyway. ‘What on earth have you got against Toby, Jolyon?’
Now Jolyon did look up. ‘The guy’s dad owns a racehorse,’ he said, ‘a thoroughbred.’ Emilia shrugged. ‘You know Toby went to Eton.’
‘What does that matter? It’s not Toby’s fault.’
‘I totally agree, Emilia. But it’s a fact that at places like Eton they train their pupils to get into this place. Show of hands, did anyone in this room receive any special intensive training for the entrance exam? The interview?’ No one moved. ‘A good friend of mine, the brightest guy at our neighbouring school, got turned down here. No training. He froze in the interview. I only scraped through because I think Professor Jacks, my law tutor, is some sort of undercover Marxist on his own mission to even up the score. So I got lucky. And my friend got unlucky. And Toby got trained, just like his father’s thoroughbred racehorse. Us here in this room, we’re just the old nags. So we all need to stick together, that’s massively important. Just like they do with their hereditary titles, their exclusive schools and old boys’ clubs. So anyway, there’s no way I was getting out the hash until Toby left. If he wants a smoke he can invite us to his room. And he can use some of his stabling expenses to buy the stuff.’
‘But Toby’s sweet enough,’ said Emilia, ‘he doesn’t rub it in your face.’
‘You’re right, Emilia, sorry. I have nothing against Toby himself. It’s just he’s not right for . . . I’ll explain later,’ said Jolyon, crossing something out on his piece of paper. ‘OK then, Jack, second drawer, you can roll tonight.’
‘Why can’t Chad roll? I rolled last night.’
‘Because last night was best-looking-guy-in-the-room night and tonight it’s funniest-guy-in-the-room night. The honour’s all yours again, Jack.’
Emilia looked over at Chad and he glanced down quickly. He had watched Jolyon roll a joint and memorised the procedure. But his own fingers had never heated and crumbled resin or curled cardboard into a roach. The licking and sealing and packing seemed like a process for practised hands.
‘Jack’s sister has a pony and you seem to like him,’ said Mark, not opening his eyes. He was lying on the floor, his Tom Collins resting on his chest in the V of his T-shirt. To manoeuvre the drink from there to his lips was a model of efficiency.
‘But I never had a fucking pony,’ said Jack. ‘Don’t go labelling me some kind of pony owner. You know the quality of present I received when I was my sister’s age? When Stars Wars was massive and everyone had a lightsaber and battalions of stormtroopers, I got a Star Wars jumper for Christmas.’
‘That doesn’t sound so bad,’ said Emilia.
‘Really? Well, for one, my mother knitted it herself. And then, two, she can’t even fucking knit. The thing ended up looking like it read Straw Arse.’ Jack rubbed the back of his neck. ‘If I shaved off my hair you’d see thousands of scars left by hundreds of pairs of Doc Martens on my scalp.’ He pretended to choke back tears, pestling the socket of his eye with his fist for effect. ‘I had it tough. I know about tough.’ He swatted his hand toward Jolyon, who was sitting on the bed. ‘Tougher than Little Lord Fauntleroy up there on his throne.’
‘It’s my room,’ said Jolyon. ‘And anyway, you’re welcome to sit here if you like.’
‘No, I’m good in the cheap seats here,’ said Jack. He bounced on the desk chair to make the thing squeak. ‘My parents might not be schoolteachers but they taught me to know my place.’
‘Do you have any idea how little a teacher in this country gets paid? Your dad is some kind of manager. You tell everyone he works for the Post Office so they’ll imagine him plodding the streets with a sack slung over his shoulder. Meanwhile he’s in his London office making scores of workers redundant every day.’
‘He earns less than two teachers.’
‘No he doesn’t – he just bought a pony.’
‘Fine, fine. We’ll just call it a draw then.’ Jack peeled a skin from its orange packet. He licked and split a cigarette, then started to burn the corner of a thumb-long piece of resin, chasing its snakelets of smoke with his mouth, nothing wasted.
Mark’s eyes had been closed since his goodbye to Toby but he opened them now. He drained his drink and rolled onto his side, ‘Have any of you been summoned to one of the warden’s meet-and-greets yet?’ he said.
‘Yes, I’m due up this Sunday,’ said Jack. ‘You too, Emilia, right?’
Chad looked over at Jack and tried not to feel bitter toward him. The Americans were slated to meet the warden together as a group in three weeks’ time.
‘I’m subpoenaed next weekend,’ said Jolyon.
‘Well, one thing that makes it worthwhile, at least the wine’s good,’ said Mark. ‘But the trouble is, the only topic of conversation the warden has any interest in is what your father does for a living.’
Emilia shook her head resentfully.
‘So I was talking to that posh girl Elizabeth,’ said Mark, ‘when up he sidles in his weekend woollens and leatherette slippers. Hellay, he says, I’m Rafe Wiseman, Warden of Peett. How jew doo, and how jew doo too. And jew are, and jew are? Tell me now, what is it that your father does? So I told him my father works in a bookshop and my mother . . . Before I could say anything else, he’d already spun away, a blur of old bones. And then he says to Elizabeth, and high abite your father?’ Mark looked around the room, their eyes all upon him. ‘Well, it turns out the lovely Elizabeth’s father is a judge at the Court of Appeal. Old Ralphy promptly led her away by the elbow. I don’t think he said another word to anyone else at all.’ Mark rolled onto his back and closed his eyes again.
‘We’re not keeping you up, are we, Mark?’ said Emilia.
‘No,’ said Mark. ‘Honestly, this is the time of day when I most come alive.’ He repositioned the pillow beneath his head and became motionless again.
Chad tried to think of a recent injustice to share with the room but nothing came immediately to mind. And then he did think of something Pitt’s liaison officer had said about preferential access to the computing suite, the computers there having been purchased with donated American dollars. But Jolyon spoke before he had time to weigh up the tale’s worth. ‘OK, Jack. I bet you a tenner Wiseman shows less interest in my teacher dad than your Royal Mail executive father. Assuming you don’t lie and say postman as usual.’
‘Come on,’ said Jack, ‘you have to allow me postman. Just to see him sprint away like he’s bumped into a pigeon-toed leper.’
‘God, you should hear yourselves,’ said Emilia. ‘Little boys turning this into some kind of game. My dad’s not this, my dad’s not that, but your dad’s definitely the other.’
It had taken Chad some time to adjust to their ways. While Chad felt ashamed of being a farm boy, his new friends all seemed proud of their lack of breeding, everyone trumpeting their poor upbringing or the inadequacies of their high schools. Pitt College felt like America turned back to front and maybe also on its head. But gradually Chad had come to understand his friends, they had all made it to Pitt because of intelligence. They had, every one of them, proved themselves the cleverest at their schools. But intellectually they began here as equals, not one of them could yet be identified as top of the heap.
What th
ey did have was background and so lack of privilege or money became the medals of honour they polished in public each day. They were the brightest of the blooms that had sprung from the harshest soils, like a long-distance runner from Kenya who had trained in the dust with no shoes. A natural. Each of them yearned for the great status that disadvantage could bestow, because in truth they all felt scared, fearful they had slipped through the net and they really didn’t belong there at all.
Even Emilia played this game. She tried to sound weary of the boys, their public breast-beating, their peacock displays. They might as well have hung their disadvantages out from their jeans and compared lengths. She was like a schoolgirl disparaging schoolboys fighting dustily in the playground but then dating the one to emerge with the best of the scalps and the scars.
‘Look,’ said Jack, ‘Mark’s dad might just work in a small bookshop but he does own the bookshop. And his mum is a lecturer at LSE. And if you’re a teacher like Fauntleroy’s parents, you have at least been to university. My dad started on the counters, sixteen, straight out of school. No one from my family has even been to university.’
‘You’re just a bunch of soft southerners,’ said Emilia. ‘And you all lose, by the way, not that any of it matters.’
‘Just being from Yorkshire doesn’t automatically entitle you to win,’ said Jack. ‘But come on then. Let’s hear it, blondie.’
Emilia lifted one of her legs and propelled the sole of her boot into Jack’s shin.
Jack cried out in pain. ‘Jesus, that fuckingwell hurt,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ said Emilia, ‘and next time you call me blondie I’ll punch you in the face.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Jack, raising his palms in surrender. ‘Go on then, tell us your tales of northern fucking woe.’
‘My dad was a miner,’ said Emilia.
‘Oh Christ but that’s perfect,’ said Jack.
‘What do you mean?’ said Emilia, readying her foot.